


The Frailty of Genius

by Marta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dubious Morality, Friendship, Gap Filler, Gen, Male Friendship, Treason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:45:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marta/pseuds/Marta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even if it wasn't for the whole getting-kidnapped-by-Moriarty thing, a man like John would never have approved of Sherlock's choice to use top-secret missile plans as bait to lure a criminal mastermind out. The aftermath of the pool scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Frailty of Genius

**Author's Note:**

> "Did you give Mycroft the memory stick yet?"
> 
> "Yes. He was over the moon. He threatened me with a knighthood, again."
> 
> (from "The Great Game")

"Say that again!" Moriarty's voice bellowed into his phone, no longer the impish Jim from IT nor even the brogue who had informed him in his sing-song voice that he wouldn't catch him later. No, this rendition of Moriarty was ferocious, raving even. Sherlock felt his blood run cold, colder even than it had at the sight of John trussed up in explosives hadn't provoked. That was saying something.

"Say that again," the other man repeated, a little more calmly, "and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you." Sherlock chanced a look at John, saw him kneeling against the wall; a little puzzled at this turn of events but still crouched at the ready, like a cat preparing to pounce if he saw a moment where it might actually be of help; or, more likely, a man ready to look his last enemy in the eye as death took them all. The gun shook ever so slightly in Sherlock's hand but he kept it trained on the discarded Semtex vest several feet away. Moriarty was still talking to whomever had the gall to call him (what manner of men would even know how?), and then –

"Sorry," Moriarty said, stepping up to the explosive. This wasn't a threat, Sherlock knew without quite knowing how, wasn't a dare to end their little game the only way that seemed possible. Rather, Moriarty seemed to be weighing the options before him. He looked down at the Semtex, at the phone balanced in his hand. Finally he said simply, "Wrong day to die."

"Did you get a better offer?"

That earned him a long-suffering look from the consulting criminal. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock." Turning his back, he walked away. Sherlock would have shot him then, would have shot a man in the back and ended that call right there, were it not for the red dots he knew without thinking were still trained on the back of his head. On John's heart. Moriarty talked on and finally, with a pop that sounded almost like a gunshot but most certainly was not, snapped his fingers to call off the snipers.

Behind him, he heard John's breath becoming more even. Moriarty slipped out into the corridor and, if the snipers still watched, they didn't seem eager to make a reappearance just now. Sherlock saw the tremor return (almost imperceptibly, but not quite) to John's hand, could almost feel the adrenaline easing its hold on John's body, the shock of Sherlock's intentions taking hold in its wake. "What happened there?" he managed at last.

"Someone changed his mind," Sherlock answered. "The question is – who." Not really a question, not for them or at least not just yet. He helped John to his feet, letting the other man use his arm as a brace against the suddenly-aching leg neither of them would acknowledge through words. The discarded memory stick sat abandoned on the tiles lining the pool.

"Sherlock, what you did there – "

Sherlock smiled wryly. "Not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah. More than a bit."

Sherlock felt John's grip ease on his forearm, saw his face twist into a grimace as he put his full weight on his (physically healthy, yes, but hardly uninjured) leg before John schooled his expression behind a more Stoic mask. "I wouldn't have given it to him, you know."

At that John almost laughed. "You brought it here."

"To tease him out. Moriarty. After the old woman – after the _boy_ , John, I thought you of all people would approve." Bending down, he picked up the memory stick and put it in his pocket. "I never intended to actually _give_ it to him, until you turned up like that."

Those words sent a shock of pain through John's face that Sherlock guessed had little to do with his leg. "Do you really know me so little?"

Sherlock turned to face him, drinking him in. The disbelief writ plainly in his eyes. His left hand pushed flat against his thigh, an attempt to hide the tremor, more drawing attention than anything to a mind like Sherlock's. The old battle-scar, that was visible from beneath John's skewed shirt-collar. All of a sudden he remembered that John had killed people, had _needed_ to kill people. Had been willing to die in the deserts of Afghanistan to keep files much like the ones now in his pocket away from men every inch like Moriarty. Most likely, the same kind of men who had just called him. Not good, indeed.

Reaching out, he straightened John's shirt, his fingers lingering soothingly along his sternum for just a moment longer than was necessary. "You're an army doctor," he said. "A good one, very good. And I'm a sociopath, perhaps, but a high-functioning one." He wasn't, he longed to say. He knew he wasn't, now. _Look how you break my heart; look  how you prove it can be broken._

John nodded, relief and skepticism plainly warring within him. That much Sherlock could see; guessing which might win seemed beyond even his abilities. "Then learn to do better."

What could he say? Any words he might give voice to seemed cheap just now, unworthy of them both. So he said nothing, the silence hanging between them as thick as the chlorine in the air.

"You will meet Mycroft and give him the files," John said. More a command than a question, but one Sherlock had planned on following even before it was voiced. "By the end of the week. And you will tell him everything that happened here."

Sherlock nodded. A part of him longed to tell him what he'd say, to show how he understood all the things he could have done better that night, but he held himself back. It wasn't his pride that stopped him, he realized with a shock. No; words seemed impoverished, somehow, not worthy of his John. He wanted to offer something more meaningful in their place: a promise fulfilled.

"And then," he added, his voice a little warmer, "then we'll work on the not-good." Reaching out, John patted his forearm and let his hand rest there. A ruse to spare his leg, perhaps? Or to spare his pride the wound of asking for aid? Whatever the reason, Sherlock could not say he minded.

John nodded to the door behind them, not the one Moriarty had used but the one heading out to the main street. To street-lights, and pub-goers, and cabs to Baker Street. "For now," he said, "let's go home."

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Linda Hoyland and Kaylee Arafinwiel for the beta-work. As always, your assistance is appreciated, and any remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Since this is set around the pool scene that bridges series one and two, much of the dialogue and plot details come from the very end of "The Great Game" and the beginning of "A Scandal in Belgravia." I've made use of Ariane DeVrere's transcripts of [Game](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/46716.html) and [Scandal](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/26320.html). Many thanks to her as well.


End file.
